


discography

by coyotekillah



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, sub/dom elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotekillah/pseuds/coyotekillah
Summary: shamelessly sexy, and maybe a little sad





	discography

Stan sucks very diligently on Kyle’s fingers, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. It’s like he’s not even paying attention. They’ve fallen into this casual — casual  _ thing,  _ where one fucks the other and they fall asleep in a heap, usually naked, attached at the bony hip. Doesn’t pull so much of a reaction, anymore. Kyle won’t pretend he doesn’t miss those big blue cow eyes, but it’s about the same, with the lashes and the dark, knit brow. Damningly handsome. Hurts to look at, sometimes. 

He has to consider their options. Stan is a little strange about barebacking in his own house, but begs and cries and whines for more once it’s happening. Must be some kind of internalized terror; can’t blame him, really. Kyle’s hardly able to masturbate in bed, now that his mother’s caught gay porn on his computer monitor. Still, he’s feeling lazy. Wouldn’t mind oral. 

Stan is knock-kneed. He kisses bruised knuckles, curls into razored ribs.

“You’re so pretty like this,” Kyle can’t help but mumble, free hand over his mouth. “Like, seriously good-looking. I mean it.”

He glances up. Rosy cheeks, sore lips, and all. Glossy with spit.

“Good listener, too.” His voice gets low. A little gravelly, but still  _ Kyle,  _ sure. 

“Thank you.”

It takes a moment for him to respond appropriately, given Stan’s tone. Fucking angelic. “You’re welcome, man.” He pauses.  _ “Stanley.” _

Yes, that is preferred. Stan laps graciously at the junction of Kyle’s thumb and forefinger. Then, with an uncertain expression, begins to pull at Kyle’s cock. He worries. Even now.

“Yeah. Okay.” Kyle runs his hands through Stan’s thick, dark hair, scratches at the nape of his neck. Slow-like. Stan likes the routine. “Perfect, sweetheart. Right track.”

A hum. Kyle’s mostly hard, anyway, but it’s another two minutes before Stan mouths at the tip — and even then, he takes his time. Impatience mounts. Kyle squirms, nudges Stan along, pushes further. A throat-fuck, please. Make it quick. Make it count. Before Stan can adequately prepare, Kyle is at the back of his throat, and he whines — over Kyle’s dick, naturally, lips stretched thin. 

He pulls off with a sick gag. Spit dribbles down his chin, and Kyle wants a photo.

“What’s the matter, lambkin?” It’s a coo. Sometimes, he hardly recognizes himself. “Need a break?”

Stan nods. He yanks his shirt over his head in a stretch and finds a more comfortable position. Then, nuzzles against Kyle’s shaft and balls, blushing such a stark red that Kyle can hardly swallow. 

He rocks against Stan’s jaw. It’s a strange sensation, but he’s quite fond of the view. “Try again.”

And, Stan does, with a muted “yes, sir.” His second attempt is more or less successful: he swallows around Kyle’s cockhead, eyes glassy and red-lined. Fortunately, the moment he seems to slow, Kyle realizes with great satisfaction that he’s throat-fucking the Marsh boy in his own house, his own bed, with his mother across the hall and his father snoring in an armchair downstairs. A locked door and a television’s drone are their only safety net. A string of words — he’s nearly finished, open your mouth — and he’s cumming across Stan’s hair, his eyelashes. Stan doesn’t bother to duck away. His eyes clasp firmly shut, but his lips are parted. He looks used. 

Kyle is boneless. After a good ten seconds’ repair, he sits up, and Stan follows his lead. Wipes a fist above his eye like a kitten; licks off the cum, runs a tongue around his lips.

He blinks. With a slow exhale, sets a hand on Stan’s ass, pries his one cheek from the other, just to watch him squirm. How needy. (Silently, he wishes he’d lasted long enough to fuck him  _ properly,  _ but it was nice while it lasted.) “I can finger you, if you’d like.”

Choppy nod. Overeager. Cum still drips from Stan’s cheeks, but he throws himself over Kyle’s lap, face down and legs spread. Sweeter than syrup. Just as hairy as Kyle would like, which is nice — he’s very masculine in that sense. Tight and girlish blondes were never his thing. 

He’s got enough cum on his fingers that he doesn’t bother with the lube. Rather, he prods experimentally between Stan’s legs, as if they’ve never done this before. Stan croons like a songbird. It’s an oddly forgiving position, Kyle’s back to the wall and his legs sprawled across the mattress, whereas Stan lays comfortably on his stomach. He twitches around Kyle’s three fingers; slowly, he backs up and against the heel of the other’s palm, mewing like a sordid kitten. He’s so loose, so ready. Kyle likes that. Between these four walls, Stan is his sex object, and he serves his purpose well. 

“Baby.” Kyle is less careful with a fourth finger. Stan’s hips judder, and his toes curl within his woolen gray socks. “Baby, I need you to sit still.” 

“Am.” Stan’s voice is muffled by the comforter. 

“Ah.” A sharp thwack against Stan’s poor, used rump. “Be quiet, lamb.”

Kyle falls into the role so effortlessly. Stan, clearly enamored, clams up quickly enough. Kyle is knuckle-deep in his hole. He twists his fingers, and Stan  _ yowls,  _ digging into his own thighs with dulled fingernails. 

“I said, _quiet_ ,” hisses Kyle. He doesn’t need Stan’s parents causing a scene. Another swat to the curve of his ass, and his poor Stanley falls silent, breathing shallow. He rocks in tune with Kyle’s careful fondling, stretched near his maximum while his ass cheeks are pinched and pulled. He humps desperately against his own bedspread. 

Only once sweat drips down Stan’s back in rivulets does Kyle allow him to touch himself, and he comes with a gasp into his palm. There’s an exhausted silence. Kyle plays with his flushed, softening cock, and Stan stuffs his own fingers into his ass with a relieved sigh, as if glad to simply be  _ full.  _ Whorish thing. 

His breathing slows. He’s not even in the mood, anymore, but he’d never let Stan off easy. Not when he’s so needy for discipline. “Clean-up. You know the drill, sweetheart.”

Stan’s moaning has grown to be wheedling. He crawls up to Kyle, back arched delicately despite his broad, athletic frame, and he laps enthusiastically at long, pale fingers. Suckling. __ It’s like he’s got to be stuffed full of something at all times of the day. 

“You’re never satisfied, are you?”

Stan’s response is simple enough: he rolls onto his back, similarly to a dog, and begins jerking mindlessly at his mammoth of a cock. Thick, uncut, and begging for Kyle’s abuse. He whimpers, overstimulated. His eyes are soft and sad with the need for attention. 

He can’t help a scoff. Stan’s his best friend, and he’s more than a hole to fill, but he’s  _ easy.  _ It’s a good thing he has somebody like Kyle to guide him. No, he won’t be taken advantage of, here — only loved, being the tender, kittenish being he’s become. 


End file.
